Deborah

In one letter, he described the first time he stood before a mirror and saw himself in uniform, how it gave him chills.

As training became more grueling and the thought of war more present and real, Jerry sought refuge in Debra, summoning her presence during lonely evenings at camp or long marches in the heat.

"'I didn't mind walking because I wasn't alone.

You were with me, walking by my side and keeping me company all the time.

We spoke about a thousand things, my furlough, the invasion, what we're going to do together when I come back.'

I recited poetry to you, and when no one was watching, I put my arms around you, held you close to me, and whispered, I love you, into your ears.

Jerry and Deborah created a ritual which they enacted at 10 o'clock each evening.

Jerry called it their nightly meeting.

When the hour struck, they dropped whatever they were doing, and in the absence of a telephone, each would simply think of the other.

I close my eyes, Jerry wrote.

The world fades away, and then it's now.

Now was one of our secret words.

The only thing that was real was here and now.

Through the ebony of night, I reach out for you.

And from across the wide expanse of sea, you come.

Your eyes flashing, your body warm and curved.

This is the only place.

This is the only time.

Here and now.

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